It’s a click and a whirr, a gentle tick as the final piece slots into place.
You’re in love.
You didn’t want to be. You tried your best not to be. You even thought of every single negative quality she had to try to stop yourself from yet another swan dive into broken glass. But she called out to you and you couldn’t ignore her, couldn’t leave her like that.
If I could open up my head and find the part of my brain that is the nexus for “love,” I’d stick a screwdriver in there and stir it up like old custard, destroy the fucking thing forever.
I don’t want it any more. I don’t want to be dreading this weekend with a feeling I’ve not had since I was four or five, a childlike fear that soaks my blood and bones, that screams at me even as I pretend not to hear it.
I don’t want to feel my stomach knot like wet rope every time I find something she labelled at the back of a kitchen cupboard or when iPhoto mockingly shows me pictures of her at startup, time travelling to punch me in the gut.
I miss her so much. Two years and nothing has changed inside me. Because that’s my idiocy: once I’ve fallen in love with someone, I never fall out of love. I envy those around me who declare their undying bond to “the one” and then merrily swap partners, re-writing the history to jibe with the now. If I could be like them, I’d be happier. Or at least less miserable.
When I tell others of my affliction, they say it’s a strength to love so much. It isn’t. It’s the cruellest, sharpest weakness when no-one else exhibits the same ridiculous tendencies. Everyone else “moves on.” I don’t. I guess I’m broken.
I’m thinking of the softness of her face now, how I used to love just holding her to me and losing myself in her embrace. She always smelt so good, I can’t really describe it but it made me relax, I knew I was safe. Now we’re strangers. I know we’ll never be friends again. And I know I’ll never feel safe again.
The events of the last week, a brutal and sudden family illness, have forced me to realise how much I’ve been kidding myself in believing I’m not alone. I can understand the comforts of self-delusion but that’s a path I thought I was avoiding. I was wrong.
What use is me not drinking / drugging if I lose myself to a fantasy, if I spin something out of nothing entirely in my head? There’s no true difference between doing that and getting off your head every weekend to blot out the shit life you’ve chosen to have. In my own way, I’ve become a drone, my soma is love. My songs stink of its crippling wretchedness.
I’m not saying that the universe is evil. It’s just uncaring, indifferent. A lottery win or a haemorrhage, it’s all the same, all meaningless.
Maybe it’s time I started living in a loveless reality than a love-filled daydream.